Bleeding Arsenic
by eliska
Summary: This is what I tried to tell you. Oneshot, Stan/Kyle friendship. Companion to 'Cyanide Dreams,' but can be a stand-alone.


A/N: **Notice the date.** Yesh, my one-year anniversary in this fandom~

This is a sort-of prequel to _Cyanide Dreams._ Can also be a stand-alone, although the other fic and the ending to this one would make much more sense if this one is read first. If you squint, this -can- be seen as Stan/Kyle. But I prefer it to be strong friendship, in any case.

Lastly, no, the cause of death isn't explicitly stated here. It could be **inferred**, though. /shot/

Oh, and catch the recurring line if you can. It was in both _Cyanide Dreams_ and _On the Arrow_. 8D

Constructive criticism is always welcomed :)

**Disclaimer: On Profile.**

**Second-to-last line:** _To My Dear and Loving Husband_ by Anne Bradstreet.

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_Bleeding Arsenic_

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_I can believe things that are true and I can believe things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not._ – **American Gods**, Neil Gaiman

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It's just a matter of consciously wanting to believe or not, though. And this time I chose not to believe. I'd been straightforward all my life, constantly pointing out what I thought of as wrong versus right. Even when my friends left me behind in pursuit of some materialistic, Jew-less fad, I'd always been one to stand my place. That was just the way things were. And probably the way things still are; some people never change.

Well, we could scratch that last line.

I stood in front of my door, waiting. It was late, almost twelve, and my parents weren't home. Thank God for that, they'd gone somewhere for a meeting. I'd just finally been able to kick Ike out of the house about two hours ago. Two hours.

I guess that's how long I've been waiting.

_You're late. You said you'd be here by ten. Oh God how I wish I could believe it was just a flight delay, Stan, 'cause that's what you'll say, wouldn't you? Because you don't want me to find out, but hey, that's the way life works. The more you want something the farther away it seems. It's like I want to believe you, I really do, but I can't. Not until you can give me a good reason for fucking up your own life._

Soft rapping sounds caught my attention, and I threw open the door—a little too enthusiastically—to reveal a pale face, the dark circles under his eyes distinct. "Holy shit dude, whatever the fuck—"

"Later, Kyle. I'm fine." His voice was hoarse, his step awkward, and as if that wasn't enough to prove that he was far from fine, he started coughing. I watched in horror as bright red specks flew from his mouth onto the spotless white floor; they were like the little hope I retained finally flying into pieces. Desperately fighting against the waves of nausea that had started to sweep through me, I hauled Stan onto the sofa. The energetic, sparkling blue eyes I remembered were now cloudy with listlessness; seeing them made something knot up hard inside me. I was right… about something I didn't want to be right about. "Kyle… water…"

As I walked into the kitchen I turned back slightly, and in my peripheral vision I could see him taking something out from his pocket. Oh God not now…

I pretended not to notice as I handed the glass over to him, which was probably the worst thing I could've done in that situation, but the words were somehow caught in my throat. Wordlessly he gulped the water down, then the fingers over the plastic Ziploc slackened.

"No," I whispered, and he stopped, fully aware now that I was watching him. "Stan, you're not doing this. Not in my house, not ever."

He looked at me, eyes full of some unknown emotion, but I could decipher the note of pleading in his voice. "Kyle, please… you don't know what… you don't know what I've been through, how hard it's been…"

"Hard enough for you to want to just give up and throw everything away? Stan, what the hell, you've still got your family, you've got me, and yeah I don't know what the fuck you went through out there but I sure as hell know that there's still people who care about you!" With that, I snatched the cocaine out of his hand and threw it across the room.

I was expecting him to either scream at me or start breaking down, but not the force of his fist connecting with my face. Stan had always been taller than me, and this was a fact that had not changed much over the years of adolescence. His blazing blue eyes glared down at me, but there was no anger in them, only hollowness. And that was what scared me the most.

"It's not like here at all, Kyle," he said in an undertone. "Out there they don't do it the way we do, a small town like this will teach you nothing, nothing. I left here to get what I really wanted, and I was beaten and bruised, living in a hellhole worse than this one—"

His words were already slipping right past me by the time he got around to the main point—I suppose—of the lecture, how horrible and bitchy his life was, and that I wasn't any help at all. Well, how was I supposed to help him when he was the one closing himself off and not letting me get into what he really needed? Why did I deserve that bitching when he was the one acting like an angsty preteen? I bit back those words for fear of doing something I might regret, and the look in his eyes was enough to convince me that I should stay silent.

Which was, strangely, probably the best thing I did that night, considering everything that happened after.

When he was done, we sat there in silence, avoiding eye contact, fidgeting nervously. All my life I've been told by countless to act like a man, to stand up for my own beliefs; and I did try to follow those morals as closely as possible. Moral dilemmas had always unfazed me up until now, in a situation where I could just let Stan go and sit beside him while he slowly crumbled away inside, or take him to rehab where he really belongs. And have him hate me for the rest of his life, for that matter.

I had to do something, anything, because I could sense him slipping away from reality and into the underworld. His words and their coherency were jumbled up, his face lined and haggard; pretty soon the line of sanity would snap, and there, boom, gone.

"Stan, I'm taking you to rehab." He flinched when I touched him, and I almost drew my hand away again. But then I saw the fear and frustration that surrounded him like an aura of some sort, and my hand was tight on his shoulder. "Dude, you can't go on like this, you gotta snap out of it—"

"This is my life," he said, voice suddenly harsh; his eyes were hard and unforgiving. It was my turn to flinch. "You have absolutely no say in what I do whether you like it or not Kyle, and if I want to fuck this up I'm just being me, and I'm going to fight this shit myself."

"You're not shutting me out of your life."

"Fuck you."

"Stan!" He pushed me, and being the rash, stereotypical redhead I was I pushed him back. Our minds were tangled and tired and trampled, and I couldn't understand him, didn't want to—sometimes the sheer enormity of human selfishness is undeniable. At some point in our lives I'm sure we've all been told that we were being selfish, but how so, how much? Would I know the difference it all makes if I know him, if I _become_ him? Or would I be the same, the other part of me that always tried to get out of trouble and out of the whole situation of irony this had become. He was fucking insane, I thought, and there wasn't any line between us now. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What the hell are _you_ doing?" He screamed at me; for a moment I was stunned, for he had never screamed at me like that before—eyes wide open, irises slitted and breathing rapidly. Under the dim light of the room he looked almost… out of place, something demonic and unreal. "What the hell are you doing supposing you could take control of my life and tell me what to do with it? I don't need your fucking sympathy now; I can deal with it myself!"

_What the fuck do you mean you can deal with it yourself? I'm your best friend, Stan, don't you see that anymore? _I glared back at him. "_Me_ take control? It was _never_ me doing anything significant, can't you realize that? _You_ were always the one making the decisions, the one talking it out, _the only one in the fucking spotlight_! I—I'd always been, I don't know… Stan, you can't do this to yourself, you've… you… I…"

"Oh, give me a break—there's nothing you can't do, Kyle." He said this in almost a whisper, lowering his eyes but still keeping the cutting edge in his voice. "You went to an Ivy League, got a degree and all… you're only on vacation here, aren't you? Got yourself a job already, am I not right? I… I was never good enough. I couldn't be, can't you see?"

"See… what?" What I heard never really equaled to what he was going to say; have we been under some kind of misconception about each other all through these years? I remembered those times, The List, and everything in between. What was he talking about, him never being better than I? There were too many things wrong with me that he succeeded in. How could he say this?

"In real life," he said. "Of course I… I was all that in high school. I was the football team captain, the one who girls ran to with shining eyes, the nice guy that was different from the other jock assholes—but what about now? I'm the one who can't do anything right, now."

I hated to see him acting like this, and hated myself for letting it happen to him. This whole ordeal of… of a mess I don't even distinctly know about yet, it was fucking up both of us. In that one moment I hated his weakness, hated the way he talked (which eternally reminded me of his gothic phase during elementary school) and the way he was standing before me with that pitiful look on his face that I never thought I'd see on him. This wasn't right, wasn't right at all, and I wanted to end it; I had to stay strong. For both of us. "It's not like that at all, Stan; I have my weaknesses too… we all do. It's only human nature."

Barely, but distinctly, I could feel him breaking down this piece of information—this piece of supposedly _obvious_ information—and chewing it over. People—they could forget anything, judge too quickly in situations like these. I always did, when I was younger, and I suppose he did, too.

But now, even as we're all grown up, what difference does it make? I had times in which I never could really see through the other side of the fence, and this, maybe, was a time for his loss. The blame couldn't really be laid, but it had to be.

"I don't know, Kyle… I really don't." He turned, then, pausing momentarily, strode towards the door with furrowing brow and inscrutable complexion. "I—I have to go… think it over. For some time."

"Where—oh, Stan, where are you going? You can stay—"

"No." Resolutely he turned to face me, and that look was unmistakable. I'd seen him use it all the way, from elementary to high school and back. He meant it. "I can't. This is something I can't pull you into, again. I can't hurt you like I did; remember Manbearpig? That almost got you killed. No, this is something I have to do on my own."

With that, he opened the door—I could feel the rush of cold night air surge onto me—and stepped outside, as quick and easy as you please. Before I had a chance to even react he was gone, gone to who-knows-where in the most messed up condition there is to be in. I slumped down at the doorstep; a lone streetlight glanced off in my direction, illuminating his clear footprints in the virgin snow. I looked at them, dazed.

Here in South Park nothing ever goes as planned. Nothing ever did, and this was the worst one yet. I knew he'd be back—he always came back, as I did—but something else tugged at my heart and told me that this time was different. When, why and where… and how? There are too many things the textbooks don't tell you, too many thoughts and promises broken that aren't written in love letters and poetry. Hey, who knew? The straight-A, goody-two-shoes Jew finally met something he couldn't handle.

As chilly the night was, it wasn't the only cause for my shivering.

I walked inside numbly, closing the door behind me. The kitchen was warm, and I needed that—something to burn me after experiencing the chilliness of the night, and him. I busied myself with the kettle and the stove, although a conniving voice still whispered that this wasn't going to fade from my mind anytime soon. With drooping eyes I watched the fire burn, slowly and steadily. The door closed, softly.

Maybe I should've called him more, should've reached out to him more, should've _cared_ more

(aren't we _**super**__ best friends_?)

about him, and now he was gone. _He'll be back, won't he?_

(you never know)

I watched my knuckles whiten and the veins pop out—thin, translucent wrinkles on my pale skin. I wanted him to come back, for us to work this shit out together, for everything to be alright again. There were times during our childhood when we were broken apart, many times, but in the end we always reconciled, and life went on. I came and went, barely seeing him or even contacting him over the years with only occasionally holiday phone-calls or emails and Polaroid pictures we sent each other. What makes a man turn against his family, his best friend and ultimately himself—what is it? I've been told so many times now, that book learning isn't everything and can't solve all the problems in the world, and now I'm living in it—a childhood nightmare without repose. You can't live without some sort of support, real or artificial, and he—he was my support. Even though we were out of contact for God knows how long, and I still saw Kenny whenever I came back for vacation… nobody, _nobody_ can replace his words and his comfort when I was lost or sick or just plain fucked up. And I—I was the same for him.

_Am I, still?_

There was no way I could tell.

And so I fell, not even knowing as I slipped, into myriad streams of nightmares and dreamscapes that always befell one when the frustration knocks out the system; for the time was near, near as can be. I curled up on the bench and thought about how much I wanted him back, as my mind slowly closed. I wanted him to **see**. If only for a little while.

_If ever two were one, then surely we—_

I bit my lip and counted as I breathed.

…And the rest is history.


End file.
